Never Coming Home (Rhian fanfiction)
Rhian is one of the most complex and disturbed characters I've ever written, and I absolutely love her, so I wanted to write her backstory. More specifically, the weeks where she ran away from home. Cover= Never Coming Home Rhian's never been the same since her mum's death. It haunts her, follows her wherever she goes; the images, the fire, the distinct and stomach-churning scent of fresh blood in the air. She was only twelve years old. A year later and the hole in her heart still hasn't healed. Her dad's still gripped by alchoholism and bad memories, and spends most of his days sitting in the armchair, staring blankly at the fireplace. Rhian can't take it anymore. So she's going to do the only thing she's good at: run away. |-| Prologue= I first tried to runaway when I was twelve. I didn't get very far, unsurprisingly. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what I anticipated; my bags were overly heavy with unhelpful supplies, not food and water or blankets, and as soon as I'd stepped out into the streets, the plan I'd spent hours brainstorming simply unraveled in my head. So I just stood there on the street corner, shivering in the wintry breeze, wondering what the hell I was doing. I tried to run but my feet dragged and the wind bit down to my core and I was found just as quickly as I'd left. The kindhearted, frail-boned elderly woman who lived in the flat above the corner store and smelt of jasmine and cigarette smoke saw me shaking on the pavement, and hurried down to ask me what the hell I was doing, or where my dad was. That was the moment where I realised just how scared and stupid I was. My mother had just died not even a month ago. My dad was sat at home, perched in that worn leather armchair just like he always was, surrounded by a scary collection of empty vodka bottles. I'd seen him down a bottle of vodka down in three gulps, despite the fact it burned and scarred your throat on the way down. She returned me home, and I immediately refused to let her inside. There was no way in hell I was letting her see the state my dad was in, or smell the nauseating aroma of alcohol and stale sweat and tears which filled the air. So, after a hasty thanks and goodbye, she left me at my doorstep and disappeared round the corner. The house was deathly silent, apart from the sound of glass clinking every time my dad leaned down for another bottle. I don't think he even noticed I'd come in. I don't think he even cared. He wouldn't have cared if it had been a burglar or a serial killer, either. He'd have just sat there, eyes fixated on the fireplace, whilst someone ran around stealing stuff or came up and bashed his head in with an axe. He wouldn't have cared. His eyes weren't his eyes anymore. They were cold, dead, bloodshot circles of brown, with no emotion or love behind them. He wasn't my dad anymore. |-| 1= On the night I ran away, it was freezing. Absolutely teeth-chattering, bone-chilling, hair-raisingly freezing, which was unusual to say it was the middle of July, and the sun didn't set until around ten o'clock at night. It was just another day. My dad was still in his armchair, making his way through a bottle of vodka, his limbs sluggish and his eyes bloodshot. The television crackled with noise, an image glowing on the screen, but my dad stayed in his trance. I'd given up trying to talk to him, I never received a reply; maybe the odd grunt or, on a good day, a noise which almost resembled a word. It'd been a pure year of this. To be honest, I'm surprised he never drank himself to death. His liver must have been made of metal to be able to withstand that ridiculous amount of alcohol attacking it every day. Every day I half-expected to walk into the living room and find him passed out, or dead. I always wondered what would happen if I'd walked in one day to find my father's corpse. I'd thought about it several times, picturing strangled coughs and wailing sirens and police tape. I even wanted him to die a couple times. Not because I hated him - I could never hate him - but to put him out of his misery. He was just lifeless, a mannequin sat in an armchair with hollow eyes and premature wrinkles. Now I realise just how stupid I was to think that. I'd completely given up on him, but to be honest, he'd given up on himself. The sight of him intoxicated beyond belief was no surprise, so I just walked past him and sat on the opposite couch, ignoring the uncomfortable silence. The room stank of sweat and cigarette smoke - the usual. "Um... dad?" I asked quietly, not making any loud noises or sudden movements in case he reacted, even though that was unlikely. He didn't even blink in reply. "Dad," I repeated, a little louder but not harsh. This time I received a slight move, like he was trying to get comfortable. "Dad, I think you should take a break." I gestured towards the vodka bottle. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a long, almost spiteful swig - at least this showed he could hear me. "Dad, you've drunk a lot today. More than usual." My words were slow and cautious, and true. He'd drank an excessive amount - a scary amount. "Please, just go to bed and sleep it off." His glare at the fireplace hardened, and I could hear his teeth begin to grind; immediately, I backed away. That was normally the sign that he was getting angry, and getting on the wrong side of my dad, even when he was sober, was a bad idea. He used to be made of solid muscle, but even though he'd put a few many pounds on, he still had a temper, and a shortened patience. He was an elastic band, and he'd been stretched and stretched and I didn't want to see him snap. "Dad, please. You can't go on like this, you'll drink yourself to death." I stood, still moving slowly, and saw him visibly tense; then I mentally slapped myself for my stupidity. Mentioning death around him probably wasn't the best idea. But it had to be done. "I'd be better off." His reply stunned me. The was the first time I'd heard his voice in months. It had changed beyond recognition. Once bright and high and happy, now it was a low growl, like feet being dragged across gravel. It shook and quivered, obviously from the alcohol damage, and his throat was clogged which what sounded like tears being choked back. I know what that sounds like. Experience. "You wouldn't be better off." My voice was shaking, which surprised me. "I wouldn't have a father." Even though I didn't really have one anyway. "I'd be alone." He didn't reply, so I slowly walked forward and knelt beside his chair. I didn't dare touch him, but now I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead and the freckles around his hairline and dark circles under his eyes. He did not look healthy. "Just put the bottle down, and go to sleep." He refused to sleep in his bedroom since my mum's space was now empty. "Sleep it off." Then I put my hand on his arm. That was a mistake. My dad had never hit me before. Not whilst sober or drunk, even when I'd done horrible things and he'd got so angry he punched a wall and turned the air blue with swearing. Not when he caught me smoking behind the bike shed, or the numerous times I sneaked out with friends, or when I nearly succeeded in drowning the next door neighbour's annoying cat in the pond. Not even that time when I attempted to run away the year before. He just gave me a lecture, but in a way that really made me feel like shit, and the occasional slap on the wrist, before grounding me. They sound like lenient punishments, but the way he berated me with disappointment in his eyes and voice... they normally worked. The slap was quick but painful. Very painful. I'd never seen him move so fast in months, considering he'd set like stone in the armchair. I didn't even know he had the strength in him. I felt the pain ripple through my cheek, immediately throwing me to the floor. I'd not had time to get up before the sound of shattering glass occurred startlingly near to my ear, and it took me a few seconds to realise he'd thrown the bottle at me. He'd thrown the bottle at me. The sudden slash of pain across my left cheek made me realise that a shard of flying glass had slashed the skin - the blood was dripping down onto the ugly linoleum, bringing colour to the bland beige panels. The seconds dragged by and the only sound was my heartbeat pounding away rapidly in my ears. He sat back in his chair, as motionless and sluggish as always, as if the past thirty seconds hadn't just happened. |-| 2= |-| 3= Category:DARP Category:Fanfics Category:Rhian